Insight
by littlegreen42
Summary: The events of "Grotesque" make Mulder wonder about who he is as a person.


"What do you think that says about me, Scully?"

She looks over at him. He's slumped in the passenger seat, looking rumpled and worn out. His hair is clumped with sweat and the wound on his face has taken on a sickly color. She'll have to take a closer look at it when they get to his apartment. She's nervous about going in there. She doesn't want to have to look at those pictures again.

"What does _what_ say about you, Mulder?"

He takes a deep breath, turns his head to look out the rain-streaked window. His voice is very quiet when he answers. "That I can so easily immerse myself in the mind of a serial killer."

She draws a deep breath of her own. This isn't something she wants to think about right now. She considers taking him over to her apartment to stay the night. She's certain now that she won't be able to look at those paintings again. "Mulder… you're just very talented at profiling."

He smiles, suppressing a dark laugh. "But what does that say about me, Scully?"

As she tries to formulate a response, her mind goes back over previous events. She'd really thought he'd crossed the line, really entertained the idea that he'd killed Nemhauser. She frowns, feeling like he can read her thoughts.

But she couldn't _really_ believe it. All it had taken were those three words, spoken softly: "It's him, Scully." She'd trusted him, immediately, following him in pursuit of Agent Patterson. Why had it been so easy to trust him, despite her earlier doubts? Because he was Mulder. He was a good person. He would never do what she'd been imagining.

"Mulder, do you remember Lucy Householder?"

"Yeah," he says.

"You had a very deep empathetic connection with her."

He nods. "So?"

"So, what I'm saying is, it's not just that you're good at understanding serial killers. I think you're unusually gifted at getting inside anyone's head, to feel his or her emotions… You don't just guess or infer what they're feeling, you actually _feel_ it. I think that says something very good about you, Mulder."

He's silent for a while. "You thought I'd killed him - Nemhauser - didn't you?"

She doesn't respond.

"Not that I blame you," he says.

"Let's forget about this, Mulder."

"Do you think the capacity for evil lies within all of us?" he asks. She wishes he'd give it a rest. But this is Mulder. He can't leave anything alone; it always seems to turn into an obsession for him. She sighs. She wishes she knew how to help him with that.

"You know, Scully, I always thought of Bill Patterson as mean-spirited, but I never thought he'd kill anyone."

"It must have been a shock," she says, "your former mentor…"

"I could've ended up like him if I hadn't quit the ISU," he says.

"I don't believe that," she says, but she's not so sure.

"I think, in the end, he wanted me to help him," he says, "I guess I should feel flattered."

"I was talking to Nemhauser earlier," she says, feeling strange to speak the dead man's name, "and he told me that Patterson was actually quite impressed with you."

Mulder smirks.

"He apparently described you as a genius."

He looks down and laughs, shaking his head. His smile melts into a frown and he says, "Would it have killed him to say that to my face?"

She gives him a sympathetic smile.

"But I guess it was a good thing," he says, "With everyone sucking up to me back then, I was an arrogant son-of-a-bitch. I needed to be brought down a peg."

"You, arrogant?" she asks, "I don't think I can imagine it, Mulder."

They both laugh.

"You deserved his praise," she tells him, "he shouldn't have made you feel so badly."

Mulder shrugs. She studies him carefully. She remembers the first meeting with Patterson. It had been so strange: Mulder had seemed so uncomfortable, so lacking in confidence - at least at first. His defiant attitude had resurfaced eventually, but for a while there, her partner had seemed almost unable to look Patterson in the eye. She'd never seen him like that before. Usually he didn't seem to care what anyone thought of him, didn't seem to be fazed by anyone's negative opinion. But with Patterson, it had been different. She wishes she knew why.

Mulder rubs his hand over his forehead, letting out a heavy sigh.

"You okay, Mulder?"

He nods. "Just tired. And hungry."

She imagines he hasn't slept or eaten in over a day. "Would you like to stop at McDonald's on the way?"

"No."

"Well, I'm hungry, too, so I'll probably get something for myself," she says, "you can get something too, if you want."

"Sure," he says. His mind is somewhere else. "He kinda reminds me of my father."

"Patterson?"

He makes a face like he shouldn't have said that out loud.

"Yeah, um…"

"I realize you haven't really told me about your father."

"Well, he wasn't like yours, I can tell you that much."

He doesn't say anything else. They're silent, watching the windshield-wipers chase the rain away. In the darkness, the yellow glare of the so-called Golden Arches comes into view. "We're at McDonalds. You want anything?"

"Yeah, um, get me whatever you want."

When they're waiting in line at the drive-thru, she looks over at him. He looks so overwhelmed, like he's ready to collapse.

"You'll feel better after you've got some food in you," she says, squeezing his arm.

He smiles weakly and closes his eyes.

X

It's so late that it's almost morning. Mulder sits on her couch, gripping a glass of water in his shaking hands. He lifts it up to his mouth and gulps it down ungracefully. He sets the glass down on her coffee table without a coaster. Right now, she doesn't mind.

"Would you like to sleep on the couch, or in my bed?"

He doesn't attempt any innuendo, and that worries her. She tells herself that he'll be back to his old self eventually, but she almost doesn't believe it.

"I sleep better on the couch."

"I imagine that would be uncomfortable, for someone as tall as you."

"I only seem tall because _you're_ so short, Scully." He's telling jokes. Stupid jokes. This is a good sign.

"Should I be offended by that?" she asks.

He smiles.

"Honestly, Mulder, it's no bother. You can have my bed." He shakes his head. She thinks about the last time she let him sleep on her bed. He'd been feverish and delirious. His father had just been killed. She frowns. No wonder he's so adamant about sleeping on the couch.

"When I was a kid, I had pretty bad insomnia," he says, "I used to wander around downstairs and then I'd curl up on the couch, and just like that, I'd fall asleep."

"The couch it is," she says, and goes off to find some blankets. She pauses by the mirror in the hall and gazes at her reflection. She looks so tired. _So this is my life, _she tells herself, _desperately trying to keep that poor man from going insane._

She hears the faint noise of the television, coming from the living room.

"Hey, Scully - they're having a late-night Flying Saucer movie marathon! _It Came from Outer Space_ is on in five minutes!"

She laughs. She watches her reflection laugh. She looks so joyous and youthful. She can't help but smile again.

It's not a bad life, not really.


End file.
